


And Me Wearing Your Clothes

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Attempted Sex, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Geralt has a sense of humour, Gore, Jaskier struggles to deal with that, Jaskier | Dandelion In A Dress, Mild Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is a virgin, Reader likes seeing Jaskier in a dress, There kinda is some plot going on in the background of this, feminisation kink?, idk if thats the right term for it, it's in a dream so i dont know if that counts, like real mild, vampire shenanigans, very mild dub/con, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: A creature in the woods is killing village girls in the woods, but to keep you safe Jaskier volunteers himself, and one of your dresses as bait instead.OrJaskier wears one of your dresses. Geralt thinks it's funny, You think it's hotter than it should be
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion & Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This one probably needs some level of explanation. So, Joey wears a dress on the cover of The Horror and The Wild, and it has lived rent free in my mind since I first saw it so I had to get around to writing Jaskier in a dress eventually. Also, I know I’ve used Little Miss as a pet name for the reader in fics before, but don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it’s because of the song Little Miss Why So, which the title is also taken from- Just in case anyone was wondering where the fuck I pulled that from. 
> 
> There’s some mild smutty elements in this too. No explicit smut in this chapter, but this is gonna wind up being a two-parter anyway, so you’ll get the explicit stuff later. It’s worth noting that this is chronologically the first part of my whole series with Jaskier, at least so far- so sorry for any confusion.

When Geralt had informed you that there was a job in a village not far from where you had set up camp, you had been more grateful of it than you would admit out loud. Villages mean inns, taverns and a chance to sleep on something that isn’t dirt, but the way the white-haired man looks at you lets you know this won’t be as easy a job as you could hope for. 

“Small village, no inns or taverns, less than a hundred and fifty or so people- less by the day.” He sighs and heaves himself off of Roach to sit on a felled tree by the fire. 

“Less by the day?” You raise an eyebrow. Little places such as these tend to have smaller problems, thieving little creatures, the occasional Doppler; but Geralt’s words make it all too obvious to you that the diminishing population isn’t just because people are leaving for somewhere that actually has a place to drink. 

“They say there's something in the woods.” He says, as if that’s all the explanation that you require. It takes a second of looking at him pointedly for him to realise you need more information than just that. “Sounded like an Aswang from what they said. Been snatching up local girls, sucking them dry and leaving the bodies to be found come morning.” 

Talking to The White Wolf is a Sisyphean struggle; so often it's like drawing blood from a stone, but on the days he decides to speak you can barely understand what he's saying. Not for the first time, you consider simply pretending to know what he means, to act sage and wise, but think better of it all too quickly. 

“The bloody hell is an Aswang?” A fair question in your eyes, but the man sighs. You think, on occasion, Geralt forgets that just a few years ago you were just a barmaid with a love of brawling, not some monster hunter with dreams of Glory. Not that there’s much glory in your hunts, just bruises and wounds, limps that last too long and perpetually sore back, even if the occasional song comes from it. 

“A type of vampire.” He clarifies. “Dangerous. Normally have a taste for pregnant women and baby blood, seems this one has a taste for any woman it can get its hands on.” That makes your blood run cold. Travelling with the Witcher and his Bard has been the first time in your life where you’ve been free from the limitations of your sex, but the way those amber eyes are watching you now has you suddenly all too aware of yourself. 

“A taste for women? Why, Geralt, that’s a very tasteful way of describing yourself in a brothel.” A voice pipes up from behind you, causing you to jump. Jaskier. You thought him still asleep, he'd slept poorly the night before, but if the tiredness lacing his voice is any indication, he's only recently been roused. 

“Not now, Bard.” Geralt growls out, but the bard just chuckles and gets to his feet, leaves crunching underfoot as he walks up behind you and settles at your side, a hand pressed to your lower back. Warm, especially through the thin material of your blouse. 

“Oh, Geralt, a smile won’t kill you.” He trills and in spite of how serious you know the situation to be, your lips turn up in a far too easy smile. It does just as quickly though, when you realise that Geralt is still looking at you. 

“...You want me as bait.” It comes out less as a question and more as a statement as your own eyes meet amber. Geralt doesn’t say a word and you look down. It’s not meant as an insult, and you know that, but it stings none the less; hurts to be asked to be less useful on account of having a cunt. He's asking you to make yourself weak, it’s a request that should be seen as an honour, a few minutes of acting like something you aren't to spare the lives of those girls in the village, but instead it leaves a sour taste in your mouth- like talking a gulp of milk only to discover it's curdled on your tongue. 

The hand at the base of your spine rises quickly and rests on the curve of your back as Jaskier seems to realise what you just said. 

“Bait?” He sounds as incredulous as you feel. “For what?” 

“Vampire.” Geralt says crudely, “It's it targeting women.” 

“And you want to send Little Miss in there as bait?” Jaskier snaps back at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you'll be plucked away without a second’s notice. This, this concern is all too welcome, and you glance at Jaskier from the corner of your eye. His clothes are still crumpled from sleep, but he's pushing himself up to his full height as if he expects that to intimidate a Witcher. It’s a foolish endeavour, but gods how you appreciate it. 

“She can handle it,” is all the response that is given, which only sends the man beside you into further ramblings. 

“She can handle it? She could fucking die, Geralt!” His voice raises, and you're quite sure he’s forcibly making his voice lower to try and sound less emotional about this. “You want to send her in, I’m betting almost completely unharmed, to act as a lure for a blood sucking creature of the night!” 

You should feel insulted, to be talked about as if you aren’t there, but now you’re far too focused on the hand resting on you to focus on much else. Early spring's chill is still in the air, making the bard seem warmer than be likely is; and which is the cause of the goosepimpling of your skin is a mystery. Since the bard and yourself started your... entanglement, even the lightest most mundane touch has seemed like lightning crackling through your body. Entanglement is one way of describing it. Really, all that has happened has been kissing- the sort that start as barely more than a brush of lips and don't stop until it turns to heavy breathing and you removing yourself from the situation before you can do something you may regret. 

He's always been a mother hen, flapping about to stitch whatever wounds he can and forcing you to seek out healers when he feels it more extreme than a simple slice, but you've no doubt that this concern is coming from a more selfish place than simply wanting you safe. The grip of your shirt is all the confirmation you need. 

“It only attacks women, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out slowly, as if teaching an especially slow child. “And unless you’ve a secret to share, Little Miss is the only woman we have.” The pet name comes out in a patronisingly saccharine tone that makes you turn your eyes to the ground. 

“I would sooner go out there in a dress myself than let you put her in harm's way for no good reason!” Jaskier shouts back at him, sending your eyes up to meet the Witcher's, when you catch sight of something rare. A smile. 

This is a bad idea. 

Awful idea. Terrible. Quite possibly the worst idea that the three of you could have come up with, and the fact that Geralt is allowing it to go forward is a mystery. 

Well. Not a mystery. Geralt, for all his attempts at stoicism and claims of emotionlessness, has a sick sense of humour: and a chance to humiliate the Bard who interrupts his silence with every passing second must have been more tempting to him than you ever could have anticipated. You, on the other hand, were less keen. Especially when informed by Geralt that Jaskier would need to borrow your only dress for this humiliation tactic. It had taken an hour and a half for it to be taken from you, and it was only really able to be taken because Jaskier had pulled you into a kiss unexpectedly, causing you to drop the dress to wind your arms about his neck. A genius manipulation, really. Should have seen it coming. 

It'll never succeed though 

Jaskier is perhaps more attuned to his feminine side than many men; His love of scented bathing oils and ointments for his hands, fine clothes and penchant for the dramatics spring to mind, but there's no way that he could be mistaken for a woman unless this Aswang has incredibly poor eyesight. Sweet smells and minor theatrics do not a woman make, even in a borrowed dress. You sit by the fire pit, poking, poking, poking at the burning logs with a long enough stick that you don’t risk your hands with each jab. 

Geralt won’t even let you help him set up the trap, and all at once you’re reminded of your girlhood; how the boys in your little home town had allowed you to play knights and dragons with them, only to have you act as Princess. You had always hated it, sat stock still and aloft chairs stacked like a tower for hours while the boys would tumble around fighting each other, roaring and crawling, stabbing and calling in their presence until it was finally time to rescue you- always long after you had grown resentful of your place waiting. You wanted to nothing more than to pick up one of those wooden swords and take part properly, but every time you had asked you had been told that there are no female knights, only princesses. You would always run home to your mother to complain only to be tapped lightly on the nose and told what an honour it is to be picked as a Princess, and given a bowl of peas to de-shell for supper. It didn’t feel like an honour then to sit around feeling useless, and it doesn’t feel any better now. The only respite that comes is from the jabbing and stabbing of the logs. 

“I think they’re dead, Little Miss.” Jaskier speaks in your ear, sending you to the ground in shock. The self-pitying had ensured that you hadn’t heard him coming, and he laughs. Chuckles that drip honey have you look up at the bard, ready to curse him for frightening you, but the words wither away on your tongue. Your lip trembles and you drink him in. 

With you on the ground, he looks so much bigger than he already is but that isn’t what has you tongue tied, no, not at all; it’s the dress. It’s white, and you always thought it made you look sickly, but on him it’s almost otherworldly, like something you might see on a god, flowing in a wind you hadn't felt before he reappeared. It’s beautiful. He's beautiful. The fabric clings to his pectorals and tapers in at his waist and you realise something that has never struck you before: Jaskier is muscular. Not to the extent of Geralt, but muscular none the less, the muscles of his arms thickening as he crosses his arms across his chest, which only accentuated the sculpture of his pectorals and the dark thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of the gown. Tanned skin all but glows in the light of the flames, given richer colour by the stark and almost holy white gown, giving him the illusion of something more than just your bard; some manifestation of Apollo, youthful and beautiful, still grinning that boyish grin, looking for all the world both like he has spent his whole life lounging about and spent it in fields to develop those muscles. Logically, you know he must be muscular, spends his days walking across the continent, carrying bags and bedrolls and whatever can’t, or won’t, be carried by Roach but it catches you off guard. You've always considered him a dainty flower of a man, always singing, always strumming, but now you're confronted with the reality of the situation, Jaskier is all sinewy muscle and dark hair and truly, you’ve no idea how patterned doublets and a lute have kept this reality a mystery to you. He’s beautiful, always beautiful, but this is something else entirely. Beauty implies something entirely understandable. This is otherworldly, incomprehensible in how it makes both so much and so little sense all at once. Your throat is dry and you take a deep gulp of air and struggle to find the words to say and settle on a soft little, 

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” He smirks, eyebrow raising as he offers out a hand to you. “Does it not look nice? Do I not look like a delicate lady in need of protection?” He teases, skin around his eyes crinkling with his grin. 

“You look better in it than I do.” Your voice comes out weak, and he smiles and tugs you to your feet once you take his hand. “Though you are perhaps the hairiest delicate maiden around here.” 

“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Dear Heart.” He says tenderly and cups your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He calls that space Your Kiss, as if a kiss is a part of your body rather than something people give each other. “You look beautiful in everything and anything- and nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at that, smirking slightly at the comment. “Not that I know what you look like naked! Not that I haven’t thought about you like that, unless that makes you uncomfortable-" He rambles, cheeks flushed a pretty sort of pink, so you lean in and peck his lips. 

“It looks much better on you, Dandelion.” You say decidedly, settling on the balls of your feet. “Though I rather think it isn’t complete.” 

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks and watches you as you scramble through your bag and pull free two small pencils before settling yourself on the ground and tapping on the log. It takes a second, but he does sit, eyeing the pencils like they might be weapons. “Are you going to stab those into my feet, so I walk in a womanlier way?” 

“...Is womanlier even a word, Bard?” You tease, trying desperately to avoid the hand attempting to swat at your head for questioning his obviously superior understanding of language. “And no. Not at all, they’re cosmetics.” 

“Cosmetics?” He repeats and watches you as you grab one of the pencils and a dagger, carving at the wood until it is sharp enough for you. 

“You do understand women put products on their faces to look prettier, don’t you?” 

“You don’t,” He snaps back at you, indignant that you would even question his understanding of the fairer sex. “You’re all bare and natural, and look all the prettier for it, like a rose.” A hand moves forward and cups your cheek, you can feel every callous and scar that riddles his skin. He’s trying to avoid you putting the makeup on him, but just for now, you allow yourself the indulgence. It’s only dusk. Geralt said that the plan won’t need to be enacted until close to midnight and he has yet to even return from his setting of the trap; a little time to take pleasure from something as simple as the man who kisses you having a hand on your cheek. “Beautiful, fresh like a daisy and lovelier than the month of May...” He continues, hand shifting a little forward so that his fingers bury themselves in your hair, causing you to lean towards him, head shifting into the touch- reminding you all too much of the little cat who used to come begging for scraps when your mother and you would eat outside in the warmer months. It’s a strange thing to catch your attention so, but now that the thought has entered your mind, you cannot help but wonder if your mother has been feeding the tiny little beast in your absence- 

“Little One?” Jaskier says gently, snapping you free of your thoughts, you’ve no idea how long you’ve been thinking, but it was clearly long enough that the man before you has noticed it. 

“...Yes?” 

“I asked if I could kiss you.” Can I kiss you? Although you’ve never been someone with much interest in the romantics, you’ve never so much as kissed a man before you met Jaskier, you’re quite sure that men don’t normally ask if they can kiss you. Most that you’ve seen interacting with women simply crash their mouths on their partner’s, breeching their mouths with their tongues like they’re stabbing a creature that means them harm. But Jaskier asks. He means to ensure that you are always completely comfortable with his touching you, to make sure you know that if you have no interest in this contact that it will stop. He won’t push. It’s enough to make your lips turn up in a tiny little smile and you nod, leaning towards him and resting hands on his knees, lips puckered tight and eyes falling shut, and he chuckles. “Melitele, Dear Heart, relax your lips, you aren’t trying to pierce my lips with yours.” He lets his thumb glide across your lower lip, causing you, quite instinctively to relax your lips. “There we are.” A rush of pleasure overtakes you, making you shiver and heading straight to your core. Simple praise is all it takes from him to make you unsure of yourself, and want to do anything to please him, so when he pulls you up gently and settles you on his knees, you do so without complaint, and as if as a means of rewarding you, kisses you softly. 

In the months since the two of you have begun this not-quite courtship you’ve grown more accustomed to kissing him than you ever would have anticipated. It happens so often that it’s almost strange to you. He kisses you as a means of waking you, kisses the back of your hand to reassure you, kisses the back of your neck when he passes you, hell; you’re more than a little sure he kisses you sometimes just to annoy Geralt. It feels so natural to you now, to have his mouth on yours, moving languidly like the rest of the world does not exist. He kisses like he’s afraid he might hurt you, all gentle touches and reassuring rubs of thumb against flesh. He knows that you’ve never so much as kissed a man before him and seems to take some pleasure in that- not in the kind of way that the boys at home seemed to when talking about deflowering some virginal girl, but in a way that he seems to enjoy teaching you something about intimacy, or at least this version of it. He acts for all the world like some sort of teacher, gently reassuring you when you go wrong and guiding you back on track, and you preen under the attention. He never pushes, never asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, and it’s far more appreciated than you will ever say, even if in the last few weeks you have found yourself wanting... more. 

His lips are wind-chapped but somehow soft, and press into yours so softly, hand curved around your cheek and guiding you to tilt your head slightly, so you follow his lead, reciprocating the kiss as sweetly as you can, winding fingers around his wrist to hold it in place. The kiss is chaste, with no sign of moving beyond just the plush push of lips on lips but still, this position makes it feel more intimate than it has any right to; sat on his legs, your own parted and on either side, and the dress makes it more intimate still. In his doublet and trousers, the only warmth you feel from him while kissing comes from his hands and face, but now with so much skin exposed it’s seemingly coming from all around you, seeping through the fabric beneath you, from the arms extended in front of you, from a heart beating so close but so out of reach. The fire roaring just behind you is hardly helping the situation. Jaskier hums softly against your lips, little more than a vibration, but it makes you smile. Even when kissing he makes noise; he cannot bare to be silent, relish in the sounds of nature, no, he simply must make noise. It’s lovely really, such consistency is hard to find, especially on the road, but Jaskier is consistent. It takes a little more bravery than it should to swipe the tip of your tongue across the seam of his lips and the movement seems to shock the bard, who ceases his kissing for just a second before opening his mouth slightly and dragging his tongue across your own. Normally you would wait for him to deepen a kiss but with him looking the way he does, and the overwhelming need developing between your legs, you cannot continue this lazy sort of kiss as you normally might. No. Now, you need something more than this innocence. So, you shuffle closer to him, legs tightening around his and both hands moving to wind around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your own bravery seems to have inspired some in Jaskier too, so he wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you even closer still, tongue lathering over your own before his teeth drag across it and then bites gently. It makes you shiver, letting out a quiet moan which brings a moan out of him too. Not too long after that he pulls back and heaves a deep breath while you pant, head tilting back. 

“That was new.” He laughs, fingers tracing circles into your back. 

“What can I say? That dress really does look good on you.” You respond with a chuckle before leaning forward again, this time to mouth at his throat. You feel Jaskier gasp before you hear it, the skin of his neck going taut beneath your lips. 

“Dear Heart,” He starts, and the pet name does nothing but make your heart race, “If you don’t stop soon, we’re going to have a... well, an issue.” He stammers out, and you pull back immediately, eyes wide with worry. Had you been too intense in taking your own pleasure from this situation that you had missed some clear hint of his that he was uninterested in going further? He goes to such painstaking lengths to ensure your comfort and you feel like you’ve encroached on his. 

“An issue?” The words come out shaky, and you try to shift yourself back from him, but he holds you still. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to upset you-” 

“You haven’t. Gods, Dear Heart, I think you could stab me, and I would still thank you.” He says, still rubbing those reassuring circles into your back. “You’re just. You’re...” Jaskier stops and seems to deliberate his next few words, “You’re exciting me, that’s all.” That makes you blink. He doesn’t look all that excited to you, if anything he just seems to be riding the same high he always is after kissing turns a little more passionate, pupils blown wide and lips pink and plush from kissing, but he doesn’t look excited. Your confusion must be visible because Jaskier sighs, muttering something under his breath before his hand creeps higher toward your shoulder blades. “You’re making me hard.” He says, the words said carefully as if afraid he might upset you. 

“Har- Oh. Oh!” Realisation hits you all at once and your eyes dart down to his lap, suddenly seeing the tent in the dress that certainly hadn’t been there when you first settled on him. It was mere centimetres away from your core when you were kissing him, and you hadn’t even noticed. It’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen someone be hard, even if it is completely covered up, and the knowledge that it was you who has done this to him fills you with pride. You’ve never really considered yourself the kind of person to have that kind of power over a person, you only ever really feel powerful in a fight, but the feeling overtaking you now feels like power. With nothing more than a mouth and tongue, you’ve affected him in this way. "I wouldn’t call that an issue.” 

He blinks at you, lips slightly parted and he looks you up and down. For the first time, you wonder if he’s thinking of other trysts, where it was him in shirt and trousers on top of some woman in a dress who is falling apart at next to nothing. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth, but the feeling of power is more overwhelming than any insecurity. 

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Little Miss.” 

“I’m not uncomfortable.” 

“You’ve never seemed interested in... progressing.” He’s being careful not to say anything he thinks might offend you. Jaskier is never one to mince words, but your virginity seems to have him somewhat uncomfortable when it comes to what language to approach sex with. You aren’t a child, and used to work in a tavern, you’ve heard all too many terms for sex; shagging, fucking, making the beast with two backs, a labour for Venus, but Jaskier calls it Progressing. Like it’s travelling, moving from one destination to another, from kissing to something else entirely. It’s quaint coming from a man who you’ve heard sing songs about receiving hand-jobs. “I don’t want to push you into anything you might not be comfortable doing, Little Miss, I don’t want you to feel pressured by me or this or anything-” 

“I’m interested in progressing.” You cut him off, a little too eagerly. “Truly, I am. I just. Haven’t done anything like this before. So, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, you know. I couldn’t just... I don’t know. Ask you to take my virginity.” Jaskier chokes a little at the words. 

“I wouldn’t be taking anything.” 

“But I do want you to.” 

“I don’t mean in terms of... not wanting to. I do. Melitele’s tits, I’d crawl over shards of glass just to put my mouth on you, Darling. I just mean, I wouldn’t be taking anything from you. There’s nothing to take. You would just be someone who has been intimate instead of someone who hasn’t. You don’t lose anything.” 

Your heart, something in the back of your mind says coyly, you’ll lose your heart to him if you allow yourself to be breeched by him, he’ll take it unknowingly and not be able to give it back to you. Each step, each breath, each blink and each song, he will have your heart entirely and there will be nothing you can do to have it returned. He’s had so many lovers before, it’s unlikely he’ll give his heart to you in return for you giving him your own- and it won’t be because he’s cruel or unfeeling, it will be because Bards give their heart to anyone who hears their song, and there isn’t enough of it left for you. He’s entirely enough for you, but you will never be entirely enough for him. 

“If I lose nothing by it then why are we discussing it instead of... progressing?” You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from saying shagging. Fucking. Anything but this dance around what it is that the two of you clearly want. 

“Because I want you to understand.” He says, and it sounds like a plea. “I want you to know that you don’t lose a thing, and I want you to be doing this because you want to do it, not because you feel like you ought because I’m hard or because you feel you owe it to me. I want you to do this because you want this, and because you want me.” 

Because you want me. It makes you falter for a second. Of course, you want him, you wouldn’t kiss him if you didn’t. Your heart aches at the thought of someone kissing or sleeping with him and not wanting him, using him and discarding him afterwards. 

“Of course, I want you, Jask.” Your voice is little more than a whisper. 

“I mean it, Little Miss. If I do this, I won’t want for another person in my life, I won’t be able to not think of you, and if you’re doing this out of obligation and not because you want me, it will kill me.” He continues, the hand on your back moving up still until it’s buried entirely in your hair, twisting and feeling about your scalp like the answer to every question he will ever ask is written in your hair. “If this is only for once, I cannot do it. It would kill me to know how it feels to be inside you, to feel at one with you, and know you don’t ever intend to do it again. I care far too much for you to do a thing like that.” 

“Jaskier...” 

“I admit, I have a... reputation for leaving a string of not-quite-crying lovers behind me, but I cannot add you to that list. I won’t. And I refuse to spend the rest of our days together writing melancholic songs about how I want you, desire you, crave you, only to know you only have eyes for others, I would sooner-” 

You can see by the impassioned look in his eyes that he has so much more to say, but can’t bear to hear anymore, for fear of fooling yourself that the beautiful man in front of you loves you. So instead, you reach down and wind your fingers around his member and relish in how his words choke to a halt and he lets out a sweet sigh. 

“I don’t want to sleep with you once either, and your former lovers and I have nothing in common. For one, I’m not married, and two, I want you Jaskier. Not reprieve from some small pricked husband. I want to have sex with you because I want you, I care about you.” I love you; your mind screams the words you don’t dare say. It’s enough though. Enough for Jaskier to smile and move both hands around your waist once more and gently lay you on the floor beside the fire, hair fanning out like a halo among leaves and grass. 

“I. I had intended this to have a more romantic location.” He admits to you as he parts your legs and settles on his knees in the space he has made. “Some inn, where I could strew some petals about, draw you a bath, sing a song.” 

“I don’t need petals or poetry or baths.” You smile at him, but he shakes his head with an affectionate smile, 

“It’s not about need, Darling, it’s about what you deserve. And you deserve to be treated like a princess.” 

“In that dress I rather think you’re more the princess out of the two of us.” Out of the dress too. You’re rougher than any woman should be, and if your mother could see you now, you’d be pulled by your ear off to be told how good and proper ladies dress and behave- you find yourself covered in monster gore more often than you would like to, and have taken to wearing darker colours so that the dirt on them doesn’t show quite as much, but Jaskier with his sweet voice and fineries? He’s a crown away from being a prince, the sort who appear in every story you were told as a child who could fix any maiden’s problems with a kiss that would end in happily ever after. 

A cough draws the both of you from each other and you turn your head to see Geralt and realise the light purple sky of dusk has been replaced with the near pitch of somewhere closer to when your plan needs to take place. He looks as uncomfortable at finding you as you feel at being caught. You feel like a child whose mother has caught you doing something they expressly told you not to do, and the fear of whatever comment he shall make keeps you from laughing at the mental image of Geralt dressed as some mother, in a drab old dress and dirtied up apron, flour dusted about his face, still world weary and with his swords strapped to his back. 

“...Aswang will be here soon.” The Witcher says, and you’re grateful he’s decided not to address what he had walked in on. “We need our... beautiful woman to be wandering in the woods.” He gestures with a movement of his head to Jaskier to come towards you, and the bard does, albeit slowly, remove himself from the spot between your thighs. Geralt’s stoic face might be enough to fool most people who don’t know him, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. He’s glad he called Jaskier’s bluff on the dress, this story will never make its way into a song for the sake of Jaskier’s ego but will be brought out by Geralt at any and every ball that he is dragged to from now on. His fictional tale of the Bard being castrated by an unfortunate kick to the bollocks by an Ox as a child will now be replaced with an honest account of the esteemed bard Jaskier having volunteered himself- seemingly at random- to serve as bait in a dress for a very dangerous beast. You think he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the dress, but Geralt very clearly sees it as funny. Men are strange. It’s just a dress, and a dress that makes him look far more attractive than any fine suit or set of armour ever could, so what is so funny about it. The Witcher says your name and you look up at him and nod. “Stay here.” 

“But-” 

“Hopefully the ‘fair maiden’ is enough to get the Aswang. If it sees an actual woman, it’ll attack it and not try to attack him. I’d prefer not to have to carry your corpse back to your village. It would be a long journey.” He’s being facetious, at least you hope, but you nod anyway. “We shouldn’t be too long.” 

“Stay here, it’ll all be over soon.” Jaskier tells you, smiling that disarming smile he uses to try and charm more coin from locals. 

“But the memory of you in a dress will live on.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smirk from his face, which makes Jaskier’s face morph between anger and confusion quickly before settling on incredulousness. 

“No one is to hear of this Geralt. Geralt! Do you hear me? No. One. Geralt!” His protests increase as the White Wolf begins to trek back into the thicket of trees, Jaskier following behind him and shouting all the while. 

“Jaskier!” You call to him, and the complaints die as he turns to face you. “Please, please be careful.” 

“I promise, Dear Heart. I will be fine.” 

Somehow, you don’t quite believe him as he disappears into the trees to join Geralt at his trap, leaving you alone with only the fire and the moon for company. Eyes turn up towards the full, round beacon of light, the only break in the darkness overhead with no stars to join her. You aren’t religious, and don’t believe in worship or prayer but now, tonight, you close your eyes and breathe deeply. You trust in the moon more than you trust Geralt and Jaskier not to take any unnecessary risks, 

“Please keep him safe for me. Please.”


	2. Just Relax and Come to Bed With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are such delicate things, especially when there’s something there to aid them. A Bard in a dress may not have been the bait you thought it to be- especially when there is a girl alone in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This has plot now, and I’m ashamed of myself for not being able to just write smut normally. Oops. 
> 
> Also, I wound up merging Aswangs and Incubi in this to make them a little more interesting, and to look at the reader's experience with Jaskier and sex. 
> 
> Title from Little Miss Why So.

_He has you crowded against the wall, knee between your thighs and grinding painfully slow against your clit, sea-blue eyes half-lidded and coupled with a self-satisfied smirk. Hands grip your hips painfully tight, so tight you almost worry that you will bruise under such treatment, and you shiver when one hand releases your curve to reach up and squeeze your breast- rolling your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, stopping briefly to pull on it. Breaths come out in shaking gasps, and your fingers curl into the silky black fabric of his doublet trying to pull him as close to you as you can manage. Pink, parted lips glide over your own, but don't linger for long- instead moving down to the curvature of your jaw and you feel teeth nip at the skin. “Jaskier-" You gasp out, trying to angle your head to capture his mouth with your own but instead of him kissing you, he chuckles before dragging the flat of his tongue across the flesh he had just bitten. “Jaskier~” The whimpering of his name does little to encourage him as you had hoped, if anything it just makes him move his mouth down to your throat. It’s almost unbearable; being touched while simultaneously not, kissed but not. He smirks against your flushed skin, biting and sucking at the column of your throat as if to mark you- to make proof of how you are quaking beneath him, how he has you dripping with very little effort. It’s blissful, the feeling of overwhelming heat mixed with how the muscles of his thigh are dragging slowly across your cunt, but something is... not quite right. And you can’t quite lay your finger on what is wrong._

_He’s silent. Jaskier isn’t saying a word. That’s what it is. Dandelion is never quiet, never so... harsh. He asks if he can touch you, murmurs sweet nothings into the shell of your ear while rubbing circles into your hips, not silently gripping you like he expects you to change your mind at any second. Kisses are always interrupted by his words; whispered revelry about how shocked he is by your willingness to be involved with him, words that sound like snippets of songs you’ve never heard him sing. Silence is what you have in its place. There's no bird song, no wind, no crackling from the fire and no noises from the bard. Not even so much as a moan or gasp. The only noises you can hear is your own breathing, even when you strain to try and hear his there is nothing but the hammering of your heart and shaking breaths._

_“...Jaskier?” The moans have left you entirely, and the words come out strained by concern. He still does not say a word, and your worry is only intensified by this; Jaskier is never silent. You try and think of a joke that might make him laugh or speak but nothing comes to mind. A cold hand slides easily into your trousers, past the boundaries of your undergarments to circle your clit once, twice, before burying two of his fingers in you, twisting and scissoring. You were sure you had left your trousers tightly laced but he worms his hand into them as if they’re completely undone. “Yes?” He mutters. His voice is choked and muffled by your own skin; you can’t help but release a soft moan which he takes as encouragement to increase the speed of his fingers thrusting inside of you. The sickly feeling that something being wrong does not leave you, but intensifies instead. Your moaning ceases as you attempt to work out just what isn’t right but the Bard's fingers still move at that rapid pace. Jaskier never just says things like yes on its own, he’s much too verbose for that, and never says anything to you without adding some sort of affectionate name along with it. Dear Heart, Little Miss, Darling Love, My Muse... even when annoyed with you he uses pet names, like Little Terror or Gremlin. You can’t think of a time in recent memory when the bard hasn’t addressed you with a name only he uses, it’s so often that you could almost fret he doesn’t quite remember your name, but then, sometimes, in taverns when the beer’s sweet haze has turned from comfortable to sickly, he whispers your name so softly into the space behind your ear and you swear you can see stars behind your eyelids, especially when his hand takes yours and fingers intertwine as he guides you back towards your room in the inn. Even then, he asks softly if he can kiss you goodnight before turning in to the room, he shares with Geralt, and even when in a drunken state you know just a little too much shame to beg him to share the mattress and show you what a bard's fingers can truly do._

_Because you and Jaskier aren’t intimate. You want to be, want the simple pleasure of pleasing him, but you aren’t. Jaskier doesn’t want to push you into progressing before you’re ready, and you’re too shy to ask him to fuck you. Except for earlier. Earlier, by the fire when you had given up on shame and instead just wrapped your fingers around him and smiled at the feeling of hard, rigid flesh throbbing in your hand, showing that the want for progression isn’t one sided. In that moment, every moment where you’ve thought about being under the bard, you hadn’t even thought about his fingers being inside you. You hadn’t even known that was an option at all. When he said he wanted to put his mouth on you, you thought he meant kissing, but with two digits buried to the knuckles in you and the heal of his hand pressing into your clit you’re starting to think he meant putting his mouth on your cunt- though for what purpose you have no idea. You had always just... thought about his cock being inside of you. How it must feel to have that appendage pushing into you while his fingers curl into your hair, shifting it out of the way of your ear so that he can whisper sweet nothings._

_Fingers. Callous-less fingers move at a rapid pace within you, curving and parting in search of something, but what you don’t quite know. Jaskier's fingers are calloused beyond belief, marred by years of ballads and epics and witty ditties played on too many string instruments to count, but these hands are as smooth and soft as you had believed Jaskier's to be when you first met him- believing him nothing more than some noble slumming it in your pub._

_The realisation has your thighs squeezing together in an attempt to squash the hand breaching you, but instead the man-who-isn't-Jaskier only seems encouraged, flexing his fingers while your own grip his doublet, moving the fabric between your fingers deliberately. Jaskier wasn’t wearing a doublet earlier. In fact, you've never even seen Jaskier in a colour as dark as black. Black is a colour that is reserved for Geralt. The Witcher wears black, you keep yourself in neutral whites and browns but the Bard? The Bard keeps himself in pretty colours. Blues and greens and violets, colours that look deeply out of place in the villages and woods you stay in. Vibrant colours and the sorts of pastels that inspire some jealousy in you, wishing you had dresses in such delicate, expensive looking fabrics. Dress. Jaskier was wearing a dress. Your dress. He was wearing it to act as bait for something. Something. Something. Why can’t you remember what it is? Something that wants girls. Soft, silly girls alone in the woods; girls like you. Made all the more alone by her companions going to hunt a beast. You couldn’t come, the beast would want you, a real girl, and so they left you alone. The dress, your dress, white and flowing and godlike on his frame, is a world away from this black suit on the body of someone who-isn’t-Jaskier-but-looks-like-him. You stare at him, at the clothes, and see it. Buttoned doublet and fully laced chemise, something that he could never do. It’s always near completely undone, thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of every shirt he wears- a man as flirtatious and playful as Jaskier would never fully button any shirt unless at a ball._

_When did he even return to camp? Recent memory is fading, and all you can remember is him pushing you roughly and slamming his mouth on your own. Successful hunts never end like this. Geralt goes to collect his coin, Jaskier pulls you to him and whispers affirmations of your wits and bravery then insists you rest, you return to wherever you can sleep and feel the adrenaline seep from your body to allow you peace. Even unsuccessful hunts don’t end this way. The ones where beasts take too much fight before they die, when they get away, those end with Jaskier letting you use his legs as a pillow as he hums a lullaby that you don’t know the words to. You can’t recall the melody and it’s a more frightening thought than you would ever have thought a forgotten tune to be._

_Finally, he seems to have taken notice of your silence and pulls himself back from your throat to stare at you. It’s Jaskier's face, and it makes you uncomfortable because it isn’t acting as it should. He’s always beaming, always glowing from the inside out with joy, but his brows are threaded in confusion, looking at you as if he thinks you might do something brash. You don’t know what you might do yourself, and so you stay silent and stare at him. Same high cheekbones, same cupid’s bow, same fine eyes on the same fine face; you try in vain to find something amiss, but he looks as he always does. No subtle difference, no mark that should be that isn’t, and no mark that isn’t has magically arrived._

_“Sweet thing,” He starts, angling his head to kiss the corner of your mouth, and it isn’t right. Sweet thing isn’t anything Jaskier calls you; it feels patronising and demeaning, not what someone calls a travelling partner, even if you spend much of your time kissing that traveling partner. None of this is right. This isn’t Jaskier, and beyond him all you can see is darkness though he's illuminated like it’s the middle of the day. Your mind is tripping over itself trying to figure out what is happening, why that darkness is creeping closer and closer, and why even though your mouth is opening you cannot summon any words to say, and where is your sword? You always have it close at hand, but now it’s nowhere to be seen. Where is Geralt? Where is Geralt? Where's Roach? Where's the fire pit, and felled tree or makeshift tent where Jaskier insists you sleep? Where is The Witcher when you need him?_

_Hunting an Aswang, something in the very recesses of your mind reminds you, and all at once you feel cold, “_

_Aswang,” you can hear a phantom of Geralt say, “a sort of vampire.”_

_You're cold. Too cold. Not just the sort of cold that comes from a chill in the air, but one you know better than you would like. The feeling that comes when you’ve lost quite a substantial amount of blood. Cold that comes right before the earth begins to turn in on itself and makes you shake with fear. Healer's Cold, Geralt calls it, because when you feel it you need a Healer immediately. The last time you felt it was the first time Jaskier ever kissed you, when a werewolf had crushed your ribs and torn your side open. Geralt calls it Healer's Cold, or the result of being a fool. Jaskier calls it inspiration- a means of writing a new song that will earn enough coin to feed and house you. You? You call it Dying. Blood and life ebbing out of you until there is nothing left at all, not even sure if you have enough time to try and make your way to some healer. Finally, the last pieces of the puzzle fit into place when you think of the spot on your throat that this thing has been mouthing at, and shakily your hand reaches up to touch it. It’s wet, but when you pull your hand back there doesn’t look like there’s anything on your fingers at all. You can barely see anything at all, but your own skin is dry to the naked eye. But you can feel it, wet and warm and haunts you every month. You'd know the feeling in the dark, know it blind and dumb, and when the scent hits your nose it’s all the confirmation you need. Blood._

_Horror must be written across your face, because a sickly, patronising grin settles across the imposter’s face. With his mouth parted you see them; fangs, eerily white and reminiscent of a dog's. No, no. Not a dog. A wolf. A kind of beast that could and would rip out your throat without a thought. Hungrily, happily, eagerly even. Anything so that they can feast. You’ve never seen a vampire before, and never expected one to look like Jaskier. But it doesn’t look like Jaskier, does it? It’s just making itself look like Jaskier, using your feelings for the bard to lower your guard. You try to move, but it feels like your body is made of lead and something slimy and wet is wrapped about the base of your neck, dripping onto your clavicle._

_“Sleep, sweet thing.” It doesn’t even attempt to mimic him now; its voice is raspy and dry and reminds you of rocks passing over each other or bones hitting each other. “And for what it matters, you were delicious~” Sleep sounds marvellous. How sweet it would be to let your eyes slip shut and slip into sleep. To sleep. To sleep perchance to dream. The body is a traitor, and however hard you try to keep your eyes open; they fight against you and flutter shut and-_

“Little Miss!” _Jaskier. Actual Jaskier, his voice rings through your mind and your lips turn up in a sleep addled smile before the not-Jaskier before you let’s out a blood curdling screech, but you can’t hear it at all, not over_ “Melitele! GERALT! You'll be fine, Little Miss. I promise you. Please open your eyes, Muse. Please, please open your eyes. Just a little. Please.” _Lashes flutter against cheeks as you stop trying to fight the need for sleep, feeling the thing holding you in place drop you, and you know you ought to land on the ground but you don’t. You don’t land at all: you just... fall. Down. Down. Down, from where you have no idea, but you can feel the wind rush through your hair and up your sleeves as your heavy lids finally shut, only for that to be the exact moment you feel your back hit the ground-_

You shove yourself up from the ground quickly. Too quickly, in fact. Everything about you twists in on themselves, and a pair of bare arms wind about you to keep you upright, only realising when they’re around you that you were swaying.

“Gods above, Little Miss.” Jaskier sighs softly from behind you and holds you in place before moving his body closer to press his chest to your back. The smell of lavender and musk tells you that it's him, really Jaskier, pet names and dress clad and warmer than the flames of hell, and even with that knowledge in mind, you fling yourself forwards and out of his reach. The fire behind you is crackling and roaring, but you still feel cold, the orange flames illuminates the look of hurt on the bard's face. You stare at him, and wait. Wait for his mouth to warp and change, fangs to appear and the corners to turn up in a sickening smirk. But it never happens, he just keeps his distance, and stares at you as you stare at him. He’s really himself. Beautiful, wonderful Jaskier, but you can’t bring yourself to move back towards him all the same.

A gruff call of your name comes from the other side of the fire, and it takes a second too long for you to realise it’s Geralt.

“You alright?” He asks, but your tongue won’t cooperate with your mind and so no words come out. “Jaskier- is she alright?” He sounds concerned. Still, you cannot quite connect why he sounds so concerned to what is happening around you, all you know is that you’re afraid. Afraid of the-thing-that-isn’t-your-bard. Afraid of pointed canines, a growing darkness and cold. Cold that seems from the inside out, carries whispers from people you cannot see. You turn, albeit slowly, to look for The Witcher: finding him on the other side of the flames, sat atop a creature that you assume must have been the creature that had been in your head. It doesn’t look like a creature. It looks like a man, but not Jaskier not anymore. He, It, is pale as snow, with fair hair that curls around his face in boyish waves and big green eyes. The only thing that looks wrong is the mouth. Those fangs, long and perpetually glinting, grinning at you.

“Hello sweet thing-" The thing beneath Geralt says, voice dripping with contempt and lust that makes you shake.

“Do Not fucking speak to her.” Geralt snaps at it, head turning to face you. His eyes are pitch, and the baring of his teeth reminds you all too much of the thing he's cursing at. “Jaskier-"

“She’s... she’s scared, Geralt.” Jaskier says gently, and you turn back to face him, meeting his eyes once more, they never leave your face. “She’s bleeding everywhere.” That’s news to you. You can’t feel anything, not the fire behind you, the grass under you or the wind, there’s nothing. Nothing at all, so you look about wildly.

Bad idea, really. Blood. Or what looks like it any way. He was right. It’s everywhere. The ground, your blouse, the once stark white fabric of the dress now stained a rusty red across the Bard's lap. Though you cannot see it, you don’t doubt that it’s in your hair, matting and sticking the strands together into a bloodied clump. A hand shakily lifts from your side, feeling like your veins are filled with lead, and you see it. You couldn’t see it at all in your dream, but now here it is for all to see. Blood. Sticky, dark red blood, perfectly visible on your skin. You can’t feel it’s warmth, or smell the copper, but you know they must be there. Especially with how Jaskier’s nose wrinkles in a cringe, but you cannot bring yourself to care. The wound is giving no pain, no smell, no warmth. It doesn’t feel like an injury, well, not your injury at least. Instead, it feels like you’re looking at the result of someone else’s misfortune. It is yours though. The pitying look that the bard is giving you proves that. Your hand moves up quickly to your throat but before you can make contact with the skin Jaskier all but flings himself at you and tugs your hand down holding it gently in place. It takes too much effort to not flinch away from him, afraid that he’ll fix his mouth over that wound and take all that’s left to take.

It wasn’t him that hurt you, you know that; truly you do, it was the thing with fangs beneath Geralt, who smirked at you as if you were old friends sharing a secret. Jaskier’s just unfortunate enough to be the only person who’s face it could have taken. Only person who’s mouth you want at your neck.

“No, no, no Dear Heart. Don’t you do that at all, Darling.” He coos to you, like trying to placate a frightened animal. You feel like a frightened animal; shaking like a leaf, coated in your own blood, and unable to verbalize a thing. Bottom lip trembling, you try and speak out your fear, but just a croak comes out in its place. “Oh Darling, please, no. Don’t. You're hurt, don’t exert yourself.”

“J-J-Jask.” You force out, almost screaming when you're hit by the pain in your throat from speaking. Oh, Melitele’s tits, it is most definitely your wound. You wish you hadn’t tried to speak. You could have fooled yourself that the blood was the beasts until the tendons began to shift. Tears spill unbidden, and Jaskier leans in and presses his lips to the space between your eyebrows. It should be comforting but it isn’t, it makes you flinch and wait for the other shoe to drop.

“Please, please don’t speak.” He pleads and you nod weakly, swaying unconsciously until he gently pulls you by the shoulders to rest your head on his knees. “Geralt!” The only response that comes is a grunt, and an all too familiar darkness surrounds you once more, making you whimper.

“J-Jask... jask-" You whisper but he shakes his head, trying to shush you. “It’s so dark...” He heaves a heavy sigh and kisses your forehead again, holding onto your cheek,

“You’re going to be fine, Muse. I promise you'll be fine; we’ll get you to a healer. We'll have you to a healer and you'll be fine and well and warm and safe, I promise you. I promise.” You believe him, or believe that he believes what he says.

“It... It looked like you.” You croak pitifully and he looks down at you, eyes watering and fingers gently rubbing at your face while his other hand covers your neck and presses down. It feels like your skin is ablaze for a few agonising seconds, but then it’s replaced with a kind of relief, dull but still present, lessening the ache even if just a little bit. It looked like him when it tried to kill you, but now it is him, trying so hard to keep you alive. You were wrong earlier, when you thought that sex would be what had him stealing the very heart from his chest, it instead is him desperately attempting to keep it beating. Letting himself be smothered in your blood in a need to keep you alive.

“Darling, please stop talking.” He begs and you go silent, he kisses your forehead for your cooperation. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” He whispers your name, head hanging over you so you can stare easily at his face. Weeping, hair swept about his face by the wind, and with bare skin, he looks like a statue. Some tragic warrior cradling a dying lover. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Feels right, somehow, to spend your dying moments admiring him.

“...You look like a god.” You murmur, more to yourself than to him. The muscles that work to make you speak pass over the pads of his fingers, and you feel like you'll be sick- knowing that the thing-that-wasn’t-Jaskier had done such damage that your flesh was torn and the muscles were exposed to the air in this way. Brunet hair hangs in front of his eyes and you notice the tears dripping down his face and watch one fall onto your face. Nothing at all. You watched it fall, know it must have landed on your cheek, but you don’t feel it at all. All you can feel is pain and bile rising in your throat, knowing logically that blood must be bubbling up in wet, copper-scented waves over the hand trying to compress your wound. He doesn’t complain. Just apologises, as if this is somehow his fault. You want to apologise, but before you can even attempt it you can no longer keep your eyes open and feel yourself drifting somewhere between sleep and awake as Jaskier begins to shout for Geralt once more.

“Dear Heart? Darling. No. No, no, no, please, don’t. Stay awake for me, please don’t go.” Jaskier insists. He worries far too much. “Please keep your eyes open. Look at me, please look at me Darling.” You open your eyes once more, but you can't even see him anymore. His frenzied calling of your name and for the Witcher is nothing but whispers to you now, the only thing you can focus on is the moon.

You asked the moon to keep Jaskier safe and Jaskier is safe, you ought to thank it for that. Really, all you can think is that the moon truly must have a sick sense of humour, to keep him safe at your expense. Geralt has a sick sense of humour too, maybe the white wolf got it from the moon itself. You smile. It feels like the moon is smiling back at you, glittering and winking back at you as if it expects you to be grateful. You are grateful, not for your shredded neck or how the world around you feels like it may cave in, but for Jaskier's safety you are grateful; so the smile remains all the same as you slip slowly towards what feels like sleep.

Drifting, slipping between the veil of wake and dreams, you could swear you hear your mother's voice, singing as she used to when she baked. It’s the thought of poppy seed bread, slathered in honey and butter while still warm that sees you finally sleep again.

“Little Miss? Little Miss? No, no open your eyes. Little Miss! Geralt, get here now!”

“Jaskier, we need to-”

Were you awake, you might have heard the choke in the Witcher’s voice, felt the tears of the Bard land on your skin. But the only one there to watch is the moon, silent in her judgement.


	3. I Love You, Don't Say Anything

You’re dead. At least, you think you are. The dull, throbbing pain in your neck means you must be, surely. If this is death, though, you expected worse. Hellfire and sulphur, or angelic chorus and white clouds, or the white void of purgatory, but no. There’s none of that at all. Nothing but the pain in your neck, nowhere near as painful as it had been earlier but its still there, aching and sending occasional rushes of pain down your arm. 

It’s dark. Pitch black, permeating and seeping into anything and everything, with nothing at all to break the darkness. No moon, no stars, no flickering candlelight; nothing at all. It ought to be frightening, but really it isn’t- it’s familiar. You feel like you know it, know it well at that, but you don’t really know how you do. 

You have your eyes closed. That’s what it is. It’s not dark like night, no it’s dark like when you've woken from a sleep that is so overwhelming that you cannot bring yourself to open your eyes. Sleep, oh heavenly beautiful sleep, you long for it but that pain in your neck will not allow for anything like that, so instead you just lay there, eyes closed and just living in this moment. It's nice. Warm even. Like being held. 

There’s a warmth across your waist that only gets warmer on your stomach, your back feels like it’s facing a fire, but there’s none of that residual pain. It’s like being held; reminds you of your childhood. When your father passed, you had been no older than six, and spent every night for a year sleeping in your mother's bed, her vice-like grip keeping you in place, held to her bosom the way a new mother would her babe to their breast. It was a hard year. Your mother had become so engulfed by her sadness that she had become almost a stranger, never smiling or laughing, not able to cook or clean or even collect fire wood; you had grown up too quickly then, having to take care of yourself and your mother until she finally found herself once more. She was so wrapped in her grief that you had spent every moment by her side- to assure her she was not alone- but it had grown into something else entirely. The house you had known as warm and sweet smelling became cold and foreign to you, and it never quite recovered even after she had. The songs came back, but sadder, the bread never as good, the honey never as sweet. Innocence lost; you suppose the childish wonderment buried in a fisherman’s watery grave along with your father. The memory makes you stiffen a little, but it’s what it reminds you of that really makes your breath catch in your throat. Your father. You haven’t given him a thought since you were eleven, and now you can’t even remember his face, it’s little more than a hazy blur in your mind. His voice, a gruff but cheerful thing, only exists in shallow memories of him singing along with your mother, whispering bedtime tales of princesses and knights. Pain pricks behind your eyes, and so you try desperately to distract yourself, focusing on the heat behind you. Familiar warmth. 

It reminds you of the autumn too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder and more likely to be filled with rain. On those colder, wetter nights something changes; boundaries disappear and you can indulge in the sweetness of not sleeping alone as you normally do. Those special, sacred nights when Jaskier, Geralt and yourself have to squish close together in a cave for warmth, pressed between the bard and Witcher so you can stay warm and protected. Geralt is always somewhat cold like a corpse, silent as the dead, but Jaskier is a different story entirely. Even when you fall into sleep on your back, you wake with him pressed into your back, face in the tangles of your hair and murmuring nonsense that must mean something in his dreams. He’s warm, like a bed warmer that can cling to you and occasionally hums lullabies when you startle awake in the night. 

The flat of your hand pushes down in front of you but sinks down into comfortable fabric. Not the ground. Not the ground at all. You swear you were on the ground when you fell onto Jaskier's lap, right in front of the fire but this isn’t where you fell asleep. 

You wonder, still half asleep if Geralt had managed to talk some poor inn-keep into letting you rest in their home while you heal. Unlikely. But this definitely is not camp. No, this is somewhere else entirely, somewhere with a bed- somewhere blissfully warm. 

Just blissful heat. After a second or two, you realise you are being held, but only when the hot burst of breath spreads across the back of your neck and though it takes more effort than it should, your eyes creak open. You’re in a room, dark save for the glowing of a fire in a small archway across from you, with dark velvet curtains covering the windows. It’s comfortable, far more expensive than any inn you could ever afford, and in your tired daze you can’t string together anything more coherent than that. It’s comfortable. 

“You’re awake. That’s good.” A voice says from by the fireplace, smooth and feminine, and your blurry eyes catch sight of a woman who you're sure wasn’t there a second before. She’s gorgeous. Intimidatingly so: tall, with black curls that frame a flawless beautiful face, corners of deep pink lips turned up into a smile. Never, in your entire life, have you seen a woman so beautiful: and you recall a story from your mother about a woman with hair like coal and skin as white as fresh fallen snow and eyes the colour of honey, but hers are not. No, they’re purple. Like amethyst, amethyst that is watching you intently. 

“Am I dead?” The question escapes you before you can realise how silly it is. The voice that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable as your own. It sounds like you’ve been gargling shattered glass and assorted rocks since birth, and this woman chuckles slightly at your words. For some strange reason, the sound puts you at ease; even though you don’t know this woman, she makes you feel safe enough to not want to deal out your sword and ask how you got here. 

“Dead to the world for a few days, but no. You’re still alive. Lucky to be so, too. Especially with the wound you had. Nasty thing, it was.” She steps towards you, head tilting to the left as you try and push yourself onto your elbow only to fumble. “Oh, don’t. You'll hurt yourself. It doesn’t hurt any more does it?” qqq 

It doesn’t. Well, not as badly as it did before, just a dull ache rather than excruciating pain, and you allow yourself a deep inhale. Bearable, and the smile that overtakes your face is undeniable. 

“...Thank you, miss...” 

“No miss. Just Yennefer.” She says as she moves towards you, pushing a flute of something red into your hands. “Drink. You'll feel better.” You eye it suspiciously, holding it in both trembling hands. 

“What is it?” 

“It'll make you feel better.” It isn’t much by means of explanation, but it’s enough, so you tip the glass back and gulp down the fed liquid within. It tastes like liquorice and vinegar, bitter and tangy in such a way that your nose crinkles in disgust and Yennefer laughs once more. A pretty sound from a pretty woman, like tinkling bells. You wonder if she’s some sort of siren, but sirens are hardly known for their willingness to heal people. You feel drunk but the pain is lessened even still, drawing a little sigh from you, and she takes the glass. “It tastes horrible, but you feel better, right?” 

You do feel better, so you let her take the glass from you when you catch sight of your arm. It’s covered, but by blue velvet, not the blouse you were wearing earlier. It’s a familiar blue velvet at that, the colour of a stream and embroidered in gold. Jaskier. It’s one of his doublets, your favourite of his doublets at that, but you have no clue how you’ve found yourself wearing it, you've never worn any article of his clothing before- 

“He put it on you.” She says airily, gesturing behind you with a vague wave, which has you assuming that the confusion must be written across your face. “You gave the poor idiot a real fright, Little Miss.” The pet name comes playfully from her, but you stiffen at it until a quiet groan comes from behind you and that warmth on your stomach turns into a fist that you realise is on exposed flesh. “Geralt too, I cannot remember a time he looked so worried. The Bard hasn’t left your side though. I think he may have been worried you...” 

Would die. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know what she means. You don’t want to think about that, want to focus on something- anything- else. 

“You know Geralt?” 

“That... is one way of putting it, yes.” 

“You could say she's a heartless witch who insists on toying with Geralt.” Jaskier grumbles tiredly behind you and Yennefer rolls her eyes. For the first time since opening your eyes a coldness settles over her features, no less pretty but harder. Firmer. Women don’t normally turn cold at Jaskier, but Jaskier doesn’t normally insult women either. This dynamic is new, uncomfortable to be between, and you can see her trying to bite back words, presumably for the sake of your weak self. 

“I'll take my leave, then. Try to rest, Little Miss.” Yennefer says simply, brushing the back of her knuckles across the underside of your jaw as she heads towards the door, sauntering out and closing the door behind her. 

“Cow.” Jaskier huffs against your neck, tickling the skin as he lets his hand relax and flatten against your stomach once more. Unclothed stomach. You realise, a little belatedly, that you don’t have your corset on; someone has removed your corset, and you’ve been laid here, chest exposed with Jaskier around you for days. You could have died, bled to death in a wood far from home with no one to mourn you but a Witcher and his Bard, but all you can understand is that Jaskier has been lying beside you in this state of undress, and that you feel... ashamed, somehow. There's not even a reason why, but almost bare, save for his jacket you feel shame gather in your throat like vomit. You almost died. You worried him so much he hasn’t left your side, cleaned you up and put you in his clothing, but all your mind can focus on is that he must have seen you bare and you didn’t even know, couldn’t even see how he had reacted. 

Your body is a body to you. It’s not something you attribute any great importance to; you've never considered yourself some buxom beauty, some sultry siren or dainty darling. Your body is just that, or was before you started your travels. Now it's a weapon, of sorts, marred by swords and scratches and bites, thighs thickened by travel, fists scarred and bruised. Insecurity is not a concept you think of in conjunction to yourself but you think of yourself and your body as different beings entirely- it’s nigh on impossible to not be insecure about the criss-cross of scars that span the plains of your belly, the raised skin below the hollow of your throat, healed over incision just to the side of your breast beneath the collar bone. He’s seen it all now, and without you seeing his response. It should be enlightening that after seeing these marks he remains still, but it isn’t. No, no, your mind is not put at ease by the hand resting over your navel, touching your battle-worn skin like it gives him comfort; it instead is overwrought by the thought he's stayed because he thinks he ought to. Feels sorry for you, has remained by your side because he wasn’t there when you were attacked, and now he has seen all he can of you has decided to wait for you to wake to inform you that he has no interest in you. He beds queens and ladies of status and not scarred wretches who almost had their throats ripped from their necks. 

He’s not said a word of the sort, but this invented rebuffing of your feelings has your eyes watering and body curling in on itself, away from him. He notices immediately and curls closer around you without a word, just smoothing your hair away from your neck to press a kiss to it. 

“I know you’re awake.” In spite of yourself, you smile at the sing-song lilt of his voice. 

“No, I’m not.” You mumble, childishly, and the bard chuckles warmly across the back of your neck. It’s enough to make you roll onto your side to face him. 

Gods, he looks tired. You’ve seen him muddied and rained on and smeared with gore, but he’s so tired it almost breaks your heart. The bags beneath his eyes are so dark you think them bruises at first, deep purple and blue, stark against his skin and almost merging into the mussed-up mess of his hair that hangs like curtains curling into his eyes. He’s no longer in your dress, but instead a chemise crumpled beyond compare and trousers to match the doublet currently covering you. Dead to the world for a few days, Yennefer had said, and you believe from the state of his clothes that he's been mourning the same amount of time. Memories of the-thing-that-wasn't-Jaskier flash before your eyes, but he smiles, your fingers slide up to rest on his chin. Even sleep deprived and bleary eyed, he’s gorgeous, smiling at you like you're the gift that he's begged for on his birthday, some prized possession. He’s stayed beside you. 

“There's my love.” He says gently, thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your stomach. It’s the simplest thing he could have said, but it’s reaffirming and sweet. “You frightened me, Little Miss.” 

“Force of habit at this point, Dandy.” You say, fingers straying from the rough stubble of his chin to his lips, tracing his cupid's bow with your fingertips, feeling his smile before you see it. 

“I'd prefer you leave it for a while. I don’t think my heart could take that again any time soon.” 

“I doubt I could survive anything like that again.” You try to laugh but the pained look he shoots you makes you still again. Joking about almost dying is nothing new, and still he’s looking at you like your mortality is something he had never considered at all before all this. 

“I could have lost you.” 

“Takes more than some monster in your skin to kill me off, Bard.” You smirk and lean in to peck his lips but he leans back to stare at you like you've two heads. 

“What do you mean, in my skin?” 

“It. It made me see things, while it... did that. To my neck.” 

“See things?” He asks timidly. 

“See you.” It comes out like a confession and you can’t even meet his eyes as you say it. “Doing things.” 

“What things, Darling?” He presses, thumb stilling and your own fingers fall from his mouth to the pillow. “Please, Lovely, what things?” 

“Jask-" 

“Missy, please. I need to know, you looked so afraid, I don’t want you to-" 

“You had your fingers in me.” You cut him off, and he blinks at you in shock. “Pinned to a wall, with your fingers inside me.” 

“It didn’t-" It's obvious as to the destination that his thoughts have arrived at. 

“It was a dream.” You try desperately to reassure him and he heaves out a sigh of relief, tugging you to his chest while his face buries into your hair. His heart pounds against your ear and you can hear him breathe in deeply as he holds you tight. “It didn’t touch me. Not like that, anyway.” 

“No, it just almost killed you.” 

“Like I said, Dandelion, I'm fine.” 

You aren’t fine though; not really. Memory of the thing that looked like him touching you, kissing you, haunts you- especially with Jaskier holding you tight. It shouldn’t affect you in such a way, but your heart is racing and your core throbs with each breath. You aren’t afraid. Not at all, and that’s all the more worrying. No, you feel desperate; desperate to know if his fingers would actually feel that good curling within you, filling and spreading your most private of areas. 

“It made you see me. Touching you.” His tone is almost unreadable, not quite disappointed but instead like he doesn’t understand even though he wants to. That’s not the issue. The thing you disliked had nothing to do with the fingers inside you, instead that you knew it wasn’t him and there’s no way to explain that to him without sounding like some kind of wanton whore. 

“It. Must have seen us together in the woods.” You offer and he flinches, grip on you weakening. 

“It hurt you because I was thinking with my cock and not about what was going on.” He says coldly, but that bitter chill doesn’t quite reach you, no, the cold is aimed internally. You know this blame, know it well from nights when Jaskier has fallen asleep early and Geralt will allow you a few stories of his own. Hunts gone bad. People he couldn’t save, sparce words but the meaning is there all the same. You don’t understand it from the Witcher and understand it even less from the bard. 

“Jaskier-" You start to argue but he shakes his head. 

“I wanted to fuck you.” He says it so forcefully, a term you’ve never heard come from him in regards to you, but it makes you still. He wanted to Fuck you, not progress, not move forward. Fuck you. Spear you on his cock ‘til you weep for him. “And because I wanted to, it could hurt you. Knew how to hurt you." 

“Stop with the self-loathing, if I wanted that I'd seek Geralt out." You try to joke, but the pain in his eyes is enough to silence you. Eyes like those shouldn’t look so pained. 

“You undressed me.” You whisper into the newly created silence and he nods softly. 

“You were covered in blood. I... I couldn’t bear to see you like that. Besides, the jacket rather suits you.” 

“It’s yours.” 

“I’m aware, Little Miss.” He chuckles weakly, smoothing your hair away from your eyes. “Makes us quite fair now, Darling, don’t you think? I’ve wore your dress and now you've worn my jacket.” 

Fair. Nothing about this is fair, there is nothing fair about the hurt written plainly across the Bard's face, how tired he is, how he is blaming himself. Nothing fair or right about how his trembling bottom lip has you thinking about nothing but trapping it between your teeth and sucking on it until he whimpers. But you sigh softly and lean in close to gently kiss his forehead. 

“I think you need to sleep.” You whisper, watching as he smiles and squeezes your hip gently. 

“You sound like my mother.” He says, tone somewhere between humour and blankness. 

“Oh?” 

“She loved to tell me what to do too.” It’s a joke, but your throat constricts painfully at the word mother. 

“Yes, well. You remind me of my mother sometimes too.” 

“Was she devilishly handsome too?” He raises an eyebrow, a smile toying at the corners of his lips. 

“No. She blamed herself for my father's death.” You say concisely before rolling away from him and shutting your eyes, ending the conversation. 

She used to sing too. Once upon a time. 

///////// 

“There are men that that wound would have killed, kotku. I’m impressed you’re so well so soon.” The brush runs through your hair, a little rougher than you expect and you’re barely able to choke back the quiet whimper of pain. You've not had a proper chance to brush your hair since the attack, and when Yennefer had offered to help with it you took the opportunity with both hands, mostly so you didn’t have to concern yourself with the matted locks of hair and blood. She had taken the job in stride too, never complaining, just moving forwards with a quiet little hum. You sit there, hands resting on your knees and twisting the fabric of a borrowed nightgown, while her soft hands manoeuvre around your head and shifting your hair away from the healing wound on your throat. 

Yennefer is a breath of fresh air. Not just because she’s another woman, though that fact doesn’t lessen your enjoyment of her presence: Yennefer is wonderful and so far from any other woman you've known, strange and dark in ways that would never have been tolerated in your home, gentle but with something just below the surface which has yet to rise for you. Any other person would be far more annoyed by the presence of an injured stranger in their home, but she’s taken you being here in good stride; Geralt and Jaskier though, less so. You’re a welcome guest, they are treated more as inconvenience. There is baggage here, that no one is willing to talk about, and you are unwilling to breach this unspoken conflict. It truly isn’t your place. 

That, and you don’t want that sort of coldness to be fixed on you. The woman's haughty annoyance is easily ignored, and you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of it- there’s a deeply childish part of your soul that is desperate to have her be your friend. You’re rather lacking in the friend department at the moment, and completely without any female friends. Yen seems a good friend to have. 

“I like to think I’m better than any man.” You reply playfully, trying as hard as you can to keep still. How her hair looks so shiny and fine if she brushes her own hair as aggressively as she’s brushing your own is a mystery. It’s like she’s trying to scalp you. 

“Two weeks for a wound like that.” She hums appreciatively, leaving you all but preening under the praise. Yes. Yen is a good friend to have, you decide, especially when her words of affirmation have you desperate for more. 

When you were young, you were the same. Following the older girls about the village, desperate to be involved, to be friends- to feel older than your age, they had humoured you at the time. Braiding your hair and singing you silly songs that you’re old enough now to realise were truly kind gestures, but gestures non-the-less. They weren’t your friends, no more than you were friends with the stray cat that used to yowl at the turnips that grew in your garden; you were a pet. A sweet little thing to keep about for fun, and send away once they had outstayed their welcome and the noise was no longer endearing but annoying instead. You can’t help but hope that it isn’t like that with Yennefer. You want to be her friend. 

“I'll be fighting again in no time.” You laugh, Yen’s brushing stopping entirely and she pats your shoulder. 

“Not today. Bath and some clothes, then we'll see how you are just using that arm.” She gestures towards the steaming tub in the other room. “I’ll leave you something. It might not fit right but it’s better than nothing.” 

Everything that the raven-haired woman has worn has been expensive looking and beautiful, but she is most definitely not the same size as you. Yennefer is slight and slender, and her deep skin looks beautiful against the fabric, even during that one winter you ate nothing but cabbage stew you weren’t as slim as her. “Stop it. In the water.” Yen chides, and you feel like a child. She has a strange sort of way of knowing how you think which you’re trying not to question. Mostly, because it feels like it would be impertinent to ask. So, you do as she asks and pad into the adjacent room, shutting the door before stripping down to nothing and climbing into the tub. 

The water is almost blisteringly hot. You’d wince, if it wasn’t exactly what you need. The heat feels like it’s stripping away all dirt and sweat that has ever been on your flesh; wiping away the touch of the phantasmal Jaskier. Your thoughts return to him again. In inns, when you can find them, Jaskier always orders you a bath, slipping a bottle of scented oils into your hand before you can argue about him wasting coin on you. It’s always sweet and floral and light, almost definitely more money than it’s worth, and beautiful. There’s a collection of oil vials in your bag that you would never admit to, a few containing flowers he’s picked for you during your travels. Sentimental as it is, you’re a realist. One day all of this will end, and they’ll be all you have to remember him by- oh Gods, you want to remember him always, stupid jokes and bad puns and all. You haven’t seen him in a week. 

Yennefer has insisted Geralt and Jaskier give you space to heal, you think she meant for them to go about Witchering and she would send you to find them when healed, but they’ve stayed. Some days you can hear them, arguing about something or other, sometimes playing Gwent. It’s bittersweet to have them so close but not speak to them. For a while, they’ve been the only consistency in your life, so not having them is... strange. You’re trying to readjust to sleeping alone. It isn’t easy. 

Your hands sink into the water and you scoop it about your body and begin scrubbing, trying desperately to distract yourself from Jaskier. It’s sort of silly just how much you miss him. He’s just A Bard. A silly, wonderful, handsome bard. It’s ridiculous how someone like him could so simply work his way into your heart. 

The world feels a smaller place without him. 

You stay in the water until it chills, and would have stayed longer were it not for the numbing of your rear and thighs. When you finally make your way back into your bedchambers, Yen is long gone, and in her place is a dress. It’s very much what you expect from her, black velvet with hints of red running through the fabric, a deep plunging neckline and a cinched waist. Even with a corset tied as tightly as possible, you doubt it will fit but try and stay upbeat about it. It was nice of Yen to even lend it to you in the first place without your being moody, so you retrieve your undergarments and pull them back in place, tying your corset tightly. It takes a second or so to convince yourself to even touch the dress, never mind try on. It’s soft to the touch, far too rich for your blood, making you feel like some sort of maid who ought be bringing this garment to a queen or countess, not putting it on. You do put it on though, afraid that it will be much too small, only to be pleasantly surprised once you lace it and turn to the mirror. It fits, comfortably too, hugging your frame in a way that makes you feel attractive. Beneath the mirror, which you try not to look at, you find a small number of cosmetics, you assume courtesy of Yen, and smile. You barely ever wear such things but putting it on surely couldn’t hurt. A little bit of powder, a smudge of kohl about the eyes and rouge to the lips, it takes very little time, but you barely recognise the woman staring back at you. She’s familiar, like a relative you seldom see, but you wouldn’t assume it to be you. Her hair is a little wild, but the face is one of a dark sort of elegance, simple but enough to make a difference to you especially when combined with the dress. You had miscalculated the neckline, assuming it to be a deep plunge but instead it is far less severe and hangs off of the shoulders to form puffy sleeves that taper in at the elbow to tight cuffs. It's gorgeous and you feel beautiful but its not right. You feel like a child playing dress up. You breathe in shallowly and turn towards the door. 

“I’ll not let you keep her from me a minute longer!” You hear shouted through the door. Jaskier. His voice rings clear as a bell. 

“She's bathing.” Yen says simply. Her voice is passive, even bored, and you can tell she's only doing it to upset him. 

“Alone! After being injured! She could have drowned or-" 

“Have you always been a mother hen? Or is this some sort of way of trying to get into her bed?” 

“How dare you!” 

“I know how you act, Dandelion. I’ve seen you around women. Bedding them, leaving. Your little miss deserves better than that.” 

“You act like I don’t know that!” He snaps back at her and you step out of the bedroom, following their squabbling until you’re stood in the doorway watching them. Yennefer has a finger thrust into Jaskier's chest, pointed black nail leaving an indent in his clothing as he bares his teeth at her, like an animal raring to attack. It’s like watching day meet night, blue boy scowling at a woman shrouded in black. 

Your blue boy. 

It’s been a week, you’ve gone longer without seeing rain, but the sight of Jaskier lifts a weight off of you that you hadn’t even known was there. He looks better rested, if a little strange glaring, hair still dishevelled. The fact that you had heard the two of them all the way to the door is the only way you know that the two of them hadn’t been in a physical fight before you got there. You know the sound of skin on skin too well to have missed it. One might break out still if the tension in the air is anything to go by. You’ve broken up drunken scraps over less, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Some part of you wants to see how this plays out before you intervene. A sick part of you wants to know if they will fight, over you at that. Dandelion is hardly the kind of man to start a brawl with a woman, but Yen most definitely seems like the sort of woman who would start a fight with a man. Truly, she seems like the sort of woman who would win a fight against a man, or ten. 

“She almost died-" 

“And you’re leaving her alone in a bath where anything could happen! She could fall asleep and drown. Could trip and hurt herself more! I have put up with this for a week, Witch, and I won’t be putting up with it for a moment longer. I was willing to be quiet for Geralt’s sake, but he isn’t here now.” His voice is venomous, cold enough to make you shiver. Jaskier isn’t cold. He’s all sunlight and summer, like coming home to a lit hearth in the depth of winter; this is new. You’ve never been the subject of his ire, but every time you have seen it, its been. Different. Angry Jaskier is smug, self-aggrandising and sure, this is almost afraid. Like you being without him might cause you to be lost to him. Has that happened with others, you wonder, time ripping people from his grip? 

“You’re being an arse! Making her sleep alone in a stranger’s home-" 

“She’s a fucking grown woman, she can sleep without you lingering about her like a fart in a crowded room!” 

“Do the two of you always argue like this?” You ask lightly, leaning against the door frame for stability. Both turn quickly, startled by your voice seemingly coming out of nowhere. 

Normally, when you walk it’s with a purpose, in sturdy boots and belts that clink together, there is no way to be silent, so the gown has given you a silent presence that is impossible to achieve normally. Geralt is always silent, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Must be fun, you think to yourself, to linger in the background just listening to how other people interact with each other. So much gossip to hear, arguments to silently choose a side in. You almost wish this would be a regular occurrence, even if you can’t help but miss that sound of chinking metal on metal from buckles and blades. 

As much as you know that the difference in your appearance is drastic, you aren’t expecting the response that you get. Jaskier gawks at you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, while Yennefer smiles at you, nodding with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Well. Look who didn’t die in the bath.” She says, voice all light and playful- a world away from the cruel tone she had used for Jaskier. It feels a little patronising, like she’s speaking to a child or a pet, but you smile all the same. She's been so kind to you, and you know better than to bite the hand that feeds. “You look pretty without all the mud and blood.” 

“I feel pretty.” You admit, tripping a little over the words. “I'm surprised the dress even fits.” 

“Of course it does.” She replies with such finality as she sidles to your side, brushing down the fabric at your hips. There are no wrinkles there, you’re quite sure, but the act makes you blush- barely anyone touches your hips, so the feeling of hands on them, even through the clothing, is enough to make your mouth go dry. Violet eyes focus on you like you’re the only person in the room and you almost feel like it. It’s like you’ve been bewitched, and you only return to reality when a choked-out noise across from you brings you out of your own head. 

Jaskier is still gaping, staring at you like a stranger, and your blush only intensifies under his eyes. The stare is almost hungry, and you recognise it from that night when your neck had been ripped open- but not from that dream. No, from when he had laid you down in front of the fire and slotted himself between your legs, member thick against your thigh. You feel like a slab of meat in front of a hungry animal, like at a second’s notice he will pounce on you and sink his teeth into you. A vein in his throat bulges as he breathes in before Yennefer steps away from you. 

“Jask?” You ask, and his only response is an exhale that verges on a pained moan. You move toward him worriedly. “Jaskier?” 

“Gods, Little Miss. Look at you.” He whispers. 

“What’s wrong with me?” You ask quickly, afraid all at once that you don’t look as pretty as you had initially thought. Too pale, eyes too dark, lips too much like blood. 

“Absolutely nothing.” Yennefer intervenes sharply, hand resting on your shoulder in a manner that is both reassuring and restrictive. 

“You. You.” He stammers out, looking you up and down, which you mirror. “You... You look like...” He stumbles over the words forming in his throat and just reaches for you instead, hands finding yours and tugging you into a possessive grasp, body melting around yours. “Gods, I don’t even know.” 

You want to ask if that is a bad thing, but you know it isn’t. The knowledge makes you feel powerful.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on my Tumblr to talk about Jaskier: [here](www.tumblr.com/moonlights_inkwell)


End file.
